


Hagiography

by orphan_account



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Le Morte d'Arthur - Thomas Malory
Genre: Angst, Catholic Guilt, Lots of that, M/M, Tagging as I go, and thats very cool of me i think, as much as i can write angst, im appropriating my catholic family to write fanfiction about medieval literature, other characters too but mostly them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22413274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He had come to Camelot with few doubts, sure in God and, if not in himself, at least in his mission.Everything had sort of fallen apart from there.
Relationships: Galahad/Mordred (Arthurian)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	Hagiography

It started innocently enough. Mordred was on a tare, but he often was, and this seemed one sprung more of curiosity than ill intention. Apparently there had been a letter and an old man. Lancelot was involved somehow. It wasn’t entirely clear to the man himself, and his garbled secondhand account wasn’t exactly elucidating. It also involved shipping records, from a specific date almost two decades previous, and since the records were beyond extensive, Mordred had enlisted help.

That was how Galahad found himself standing in the antechamber of an antechamber in a mostly forgotten back corner of Camelot, sorting through faded papers with his friend in a dusty room no larger than a monastic cell. They had decades worth of imports and exports spread out around them in only somewhat organized piles, and after over an hour of sorting, they didn’t seem to have made much progress.

Mordred dropped the stack of papers he was holding with a frustrated sigh and surveyed the rustling, crinkled disaster in front of them.

“Jesus, this’ll take forever,” He complained.

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” Galahad said, a bit strained. The antechamber was tiny, and they kept almost brushing against each other, and it was making him feel very odd in a way he didn’t quite understand and was trying to convince himself was only lack of sleep.

“Gadzooks.”

“Mordred-”

“By the blood of Christ.”

“Mordred!”

“God’s cock-”

“I will throw you into the moat, so help me Lord!”

The room became silent. Their faces were rather close.

“...sorry,” he was lightheaded. Why was he lightheaded?

“Sweet mother Mary’s holy breasts,” Mordred said, struggling not to laugh.

“You-” _Infuriating, frustrating_ , He was a picture of amusement, looking up from the records with a grin, and Galahad wanted to wipe that grin off his stupid lovely face, slam him against the wall and- Oh.

Oh no.

“I can’t,” he felt warm. He felt dizzy. He felt certain he was committing grievous sins at that exact moment just for thinking such things, he was going to fail the Quest and go be damned for eternity, and-

“Oh hey. I found the May records.”

“That’s good,” Galahad said faintly.

“The ink is too faded to read, but that can be fixed, it’ll just take a few days.”

“Uh-huh.” _I can’t be in this room a second longer._

As if in answer to his prayers for deliverance, Mordred had no interest in returning the room to proper order, and left with his prize, so Galahad was free to leave the horrible, dusty little prison cell. But escaping the stuffy warmth of the old archive room did nothing to shake the rest of it.

He mumbled an excuse and left Mordred to his paper restoration, hid somewhere deep in the gardens and tried to pray until the evening meal, where he took too little food and too much wine and excused himself as early as courtesy would allow to go to chapel. There he confessed a number of mostly imaginary and trivial sins which did little to make him feel better; in fact, as old Bishop Baldwin muttered the prayer of absolution the words rang painfully false.

The sun was well down but the thought of trying to sleep was horrifying. Having sinful thoughts was bad. Having them in a bed was somehow much worse.

So he wandered the halls awhile, trying to avoid the servants, ladies and courtesans and, most of all, fellow knights. This effort to escape any company led him deeper and lower into the castle, into the crypts, which predated the rest of the structure, back to the Roman occupation. They at least were quiet, if unsettling. The quiet, however, left him alone with his own mind, which was occupied primarily with the suspicion that he was going to hell, and the rest of it with the reason for that.

When he was younger things had been simpler. Every day was much the same, and it was lonely and cold but he knew his role and how to perform it well; pray at these times, said the Mother Superior, learn the scripture, train your body and your soul and you will succeed. And for a while he did.

Sometimes at night, when he was a child, he would be so afraid he couldn’t sleep, shaking at the thought of some nameless rot that existed unknown inside his soul. But those nights were rare enough, and he would sit in the corner of his room and recite the scripture he learned, and the words would feel good and clean on his tongue and his spirit would grow calm again.

He had come to Camelot with few doubts, sure in God and, if not in himself, at least in his mission.

Everything had sort of fallen apart from there.

Now Galahad was afraid, ceaselessly so, because he’d found that rot he’d feared as a child. Now every proof of his goodness, the red hilted sword and the Seige Perilous and the subtle but terrifying miracles, only instilled a deeper dread because soon it would all be revealed.

The nunnery was simple; there was sin, and there was righteousness, and one must shun one and follow the other and all would be well. The daily pattern of rituals and ceremonies was a neat path to walk. Take the Eucharist, pray on the seven canonical hours, heed the catalogue of saints. Advent then Christmas, Epiphany then Shrovetide, Lent and Holy Week, Triduum and Easter and Pentecost and Advent again.

They still had those days in Camelot, though with a great deal more feasting and a great deal less praying, but like everything there, it was complicated now.

It was very dark, he realized all of a sudden. He’d been lost in thoughts of his own doom for quite a while, and now was not quite sure where he was, or how he’d gotten there. The worrying possibility of getting lost down there in the dim labyrinth was just beginning to dawn on him when he turned a corner to see the worst thing he possibly could have.

“Oh, Lord,” _Jesus Christ, my God, My soul is brought low, but I have remembered Thy name in the night and am made glad,_

“Guess again,” Mordred said without turning around. He was sitting on a low bench in front of a statue of a crowned man.

Against his better judgement, Galahad sat down next to him, though he did have the foresight to leave a shield’s width of space between them. Mordred was gazing up at the statue, unusually solemn, lips pursed in contemplation. _O Lord When they compassed me round about, I have fled unto Thee, hoping that mine adversary might not rejoice over me_ ,

“There’s no need to sit so far off. I don’t have the plague,” it seemed that contemplation of the statue had, dangerously, turned to contemplation of the intruder, who moved closer with some reluctance.

“Though you don’t exactly look well. Are you alright?” Mordred asked, studying his flushed face.

"I’m fine,” he said, trying his best to sound fine. _For Thou knowest, O Lord my God, that I am Thy servant_ ,

“You look feverish,” Mordred insisted, and then, because the world was unjust and nothing could ever be easy, brought a cool white hand to his friend’s forehead. He shut his eyes, at the touch, because the alternative was to see how little distance was now between them. _For Thee have I kept the purity of my body, and to Thee have I entrusted my soul_ ;

And the contact seemed overwhelming, and there was a feeling in his chest like the first heaving breath of air after being underwater for so long, pleasant and painful and raw and he did not want it to end though he knew he should.

When he was younger his mother must have held him, the nuns must have taken his hand as a small child, to lead him through the halls. But he could not remember it- being touched- not once, except for during the eucharist, and now, _wherefore, preserve Thou Thy lamb, O good Shepherd,_ now a beautiful boy was sitting so close to him in the dark, and his hands were gentle and he could be so kind when he wanted to be, _Do not permit the beast which seeketh to devour me to consume me, and grant me to prevail over the evil desires of my flesh-!_

Perhaps the Lord was listening because Mordred drew away, and the world became cold and still and silent again.

“You don’t feel hot. I don’t think so anyway, in all honesty, I can’t tell.”

_I told you I was fine_ , he meant to say, but, unconsciously choosing to jettison the Lord’s reprieve, he instead opened his eyes to look at Mordred in the light of one flickering torch, leaned forward and kissed him.

Some saints visited by angels, it was said, experienced a religious ecstasy, a shocking spiritual and physical euphoria, their veins filled with the Holy Fire of the divine. It would be blasphemous to compare an experience of the sublime to a base temptation, but the kiss became eager and rough, and he was burning, in hell, or with the hallowed blaze of the seraphim, licking tongues of flame stealing up all over his body because Mordred was biting his lip so softly and pulling his hair and his shirt was half off and _oh, God, help me_ -

In the last moment of desperate sense before the edge of reason, Galahad broke the kiss, shoved him away, and stood, stumbling back, till he was pressed against the cold stone wall.

“I can’t,” he gasped, for the second time that day, and left without another word.

There was nowhere else to go, so he retired to his chambers, which were sparse by his own preference, and drafty, with the windows always open, the hearth unlit and the walls bare. He lay down and tried to sleep, but his mind would not stop replaying the events in the crypt, and after a few repetitions began against his will to speculate on how they may have progressed, till, to avoid sin, he was forced to rise.

Pacing about the room, mumbling the final lines of the paternoster prayer*, that he had learned as a child, till the words were like choking on rocks and his mind was empty and numb and he was freezing cold. Then he went back to bed, where he would have a few moments of peace before the visions returned. And after repeating this awful cycle for an uncounted number of times, the sun rose.

* * *

The smart thing to do, the right thing, would be to avoid Mordred till the end of days, cleanse his sins with prayer and fasting and confess everything to a priest far away from Camelot. But somehow he was in the solar to ask the Queen where Mordred was because he couldn’t bear to leave things unfinished.

Queen Guinevere’s solar looked out over her beloved gardens, with wide windows that must have been horrifically expensive. In the main hall, she advised her husband and held a great deal of sway, but the solar was her own court where all the power was hers.

He had tried to hate her, for his mother’s sake, he really had. Then he had tried to hate her in opposition to his father, and couldn’t manage that either. She had been nothing but kind and good-humoured, despite his initial antipathy masked with sanctimonious formality. All the Orkneys adored her, and though they were violent Scottish pagans they were almost as much family to him, at this point, as his actual relatives, so he supposed he had to trust their judgement.

“Are you unwell, Sir? You seem tired,” She was seated at a desk near the window with an accounting board and a thick book, surrounded by court ladies spinning, weaving, sewing, reading and talking, who all looked up when he entered.

“I wish people would stop saying that.”

The Queen chuckled and noted something in the book before setting it aside. The ladies pretended to go back to what they were doing as he approached her, kneeled, and stood again.

“My lady, I was wondering- I was wondering if you knew where Sir Mordred was,” which was a foolish thing to say because of course, she did. As far as anyone could tell she knew where everyone was and what they were doing at all times, though how was a mystery.

“I believe that he is in the kennels reluctantly admiring Gaheris’s new hunting dog. But if it isn’t urgent you could wait here- he left some papers to dry in the windows that he should be back for before noon.”

He hesitated.

“Come, sit,” she pointed to an empty chair near her, “I’ll tell you embarrassing stories about your peers.”

Ephesians 4:29 condemned gossip but it was probably alright just to listen, so he did not protest as she launched into a long and slightly off-colour story, and the other ladies moved closer, laughing and interrupting with their own details. Lady Laurel called for fruit and pastries and sweets and insisted he eat, Lady Perse tried to teach him spinning, and the maid Brangaine insisted on fixing his hair, which was somewhat dishevelled after a sleepless night.

They were treating him rather like a child, but he was having a hard time minding very much. It was nice not to be alone with his thoughts, even if he wasn’t any good at spinning and the stories were mostly lewd.

“You have such pretty long hair,” Lady Lunette remarked, reaching over to tug on a stray lock, “it is much like the Lady Yseult, Brangaine?”

Brangaine brushed off Lady Lunette with a tsk, “Queen Yseult has hair like spun gold, where his is more like honey.”

“On the subject of gold, have you heard of the cloak of Kelemon?”

Queen Guinevere had just begun this new story when Mordred returned.

“Here for your papers, pet?”

Galahad was too surprised to hear his response, having managed to temporarily forget why he was in the solar, and now was sat frozen, distantly aware that his face was going all red. Mordred strode over to the largest window, not noticing him, or at least pretending not to.

The Queen stood, “I think I shall have a stroll in the gardens, and any of you are welcome to join me,” the other ladies rose in accord.

”I’ll stay here to finish my spinning,” Lady Ettarde said, not paying attention.

“I think you are done spinning for now,” The Queen insisted meaningfully.

“No, really- oh! Yes of course.” She had the grace to look embarrassed as she hurried out after the other women.

For several agonizing minutes, the only sounds were the chirping of birds outside and the rustling of papers, and Galahad was sure, now, that he was being ignored on purpose.

“Mordred, I have to speak with you,”

“You look terrible. Too busy praying to sleep?”

Galahad pressed on, ignoring this comment. “What happened in the crypts-”

“You kissed me and then pushed me off a bench, yes, I remember," Mordred said without looking up from the papers he held.

“...Right-”

“Also, hey, you kissed me. If anyone should have gotten pushed off a bench it’s you.”

“Would you please stop talking?”

Mordred put the papers down and turned to face him, “my apologies, go on.”

“Thank you. Just. Please forget about yesterday, it meant nothing, it was a mistake, it didn’t happen,” Maybe the plaintiff note in his voice inspired some rare pity, as, after a moment of deliberation, Mordred nodded.

“If that’s what you want. Yesterday? What happened yesterday? Why is my ass bruised? I don’t know, but it certainly isn’t from being shoved off a bench.”

“You were a foot from the ground, there is no way you’re bruised,” Galahad pointed out, annoyance rapidly replacing relief.

“Maybe, maybe not. You’ll have to strip me and check.”

“You- you are impossible. I can’t believe I kissed you!”

“Kissed me? I don’t remember that happening, I don’t even remember yesterday at all. Good God, what if I killed someone?” He said, hands darting to his face in mock horror.

“Oh, would you stop?”

“Make me,” he grinned.

Galahad stood quickly, “I’m going to go. Pray. Possibly forever.”

“Lots of benches in that chapel. Try not to-”

The door to the solar slammed shut. He could hear Mordred’s mocking laughter echoing behind him as he fled.

* * *

He was alone in the chapel, but for the priests, till midafternoon, when most of the at least nominally Christian nobles, knights and ladies began to file in for mass. It was Sunday, and he hadn’t even realized.

The comfortable benches in the transept filled up with the highest echelon of Camelot, and both isles of the nave were crowded by the front. He was half-hidden from view in the North nave, back to the narthex of the church, where no one would see him unless they bothered to look, and he didn’t mind the company of the one person who would.

Percy was friendly and simple and brave, and if Galahad were the Lord he would have made Percival the grail knight, but God himself only knew how far he was from divinity. Well, God and Mordred knew, anyway.

“Are you alright? You look like you haven’t slept,” Percival whispered, sounding concerned.

“Don’t speak during mass,” He chided, then felt guilty, because his friend was only trying to be kind, and mass hadn’t even started yet, and now Percy was staring carefully at the floor, face red. It felt as if he couldn’t do anything without hurting someone, if only himself, and that surely was sin.

Percy stayed through mass and after as if waiting for him, but finally, he too left, and Galahad was alone again for a time. Even the priests were gone to the deeper sections of the church to tend to the relics, eat and pray together.

The torches were flickering low, and he shivered, feeling sore and awful from kneeling so long, and tired from lack of sleep and food, but fear kept him anchored to the floor. Then there was a sustained creaking of the heavy wooden doors opening, and quick, light footsteps tapping against the hard floor that were horribly recognizable.

“How much prayer can a person possibly do? Aren’t you bored with it?”

“You should not be here,” he said, with more calm than he thought he had.

“Because this is hallowed ground and you think I’m the devil? Or because the doors are too heavy for me to open? Full disclosure, it was a bit of a struggle.”

He almost smiled, but remembered himself, and ignored the impulse. Instead, he tentatively opened his eyes.

“You used to think I was funny,” Mordred complained, sprawled one row over upon one of the wooden benches, which were not at all meant to be sprawled upon in any way, shape, or form. “Don’t worry about it, I’m technically baptized, remember? In a failed attempt to please my father, maybe, but it has to count for something.”

“I won’t stop you if you came here to pray, Sir.”

“You know I didn’t,” he said, for once sounding almost serious, “I’m trying to apologize, but I’m starting to suspect it isn’t going well.”

“Probably your worst apology yet,” Galahad acknowledged, somewhat discordant to his strategy of cold formality.

“Bad timing, worse location, and I opened it with mockery of your religion. I’ve done better, you’re right.”

He said nothing else, and for a moment Galahad sustained the desperate hope that he had given up and was going to leave. But he did not do that either.

“I’ll try again. I’m sorry for making fun of you, I was being sort of awful.”

“Thank you,” Galahad said, surprised, because Mordred rarely apologized, “I’m sorry for kissing you.”

“I wish you weren’t.”

He must have sensed Galahad’s confusion, though he was not looking at him, because he continued, still staring up at the painted ceiling, head thrown back over the high bench in feigned indolence.

“I wish you weren’t sorry for it. Or at least if you would make up your mind. You kiss me then push me away, seek me out then flee from me. It isn’t fair of you.”

“Oh,” he said, almost under his breath. Because it seemed he truly couldn’t do anything without collateral damage. And it wasn’t fair, but he was thoughtless and selfish and he did not know how not to be.

“You don’t want to have this conversation here.”

He actually didn’t want to have it anywhere, but that wasn’t an option apparently.

“I think if I stand up I’ll faint,” He admitted.

Mordred rose from the benches in one smooth motion, “I’ll catch you.”

“Well, I really can’t be having with that,” he protested.

“So you’re just going to live here, on your knees in chapel, forever?”

And before he could say, no, of course not, Mordred took both his hands and tugged him gently to his feet. Black spots bloomed in his vision, but Mordred pulled him close and held him to stop him falling, saying something as he did. Galahad couldn’t make out what, but the sound of his voice was warm and sweet.

The room gradually stopped spinning, and he became aware of the closeness of the embrace. As soon as he could do so without passing out, Galahad let go and took a small step back, though it felt a bit like cutting off one of his own limbs.

“Thank you, Sir,” As if ‘Sir’ would salvage anything at this point.

“Don’t make a habit of it. It’s boring around here with you praying all day,” Mordred frowned, in a failed attempt to belay his earlier kindness, “You look like pure shit. Come on,” he yanked open the heavy door, with some difficulty, true to his word.

There was no reason he had to follow this man’s commands. In fact, he probably shouldn’t have even taken his suggestions, and yet, “Where are we going?”

“ _You_ are going to bed.”

He wanted to protest on a matter of principle, but he felt half-dead with exhaustion.

“Even your Lord rested on the seventh day, you know,” Mordred said, leading them out into the inner courtyard.

“I know that. Why do you know that?”

Mordred looked smug. “I read your Bible, thought I’d turn it around on you. And I did!”

“You must be very proud,” Galahad muttered, unable to summon up any real irritation but resisting the urge to be charmed.

They reached his room, and Mordred insisted on seeing him remove his boots and lay down on the bed, apparently not trusting him even to sleep correctly.

“I assume you can handle things from here,” Mordred said, and moved to leave.

“Wait,” he breathed, and tried to think of something to say so he wouldn’t be alone again just yet, “what was on your paper?”

His face fell, for just a second, before he regained composure.

“Sit, tell me.”

Reluctantly, he did, and said, “what I was afraid would be there.”

Galahad waited. He knew his friend was never one for breviloquence, despite his best attempts.

“I knew already, really, from what the old man said, but I hoped he was lying. The records would show whether the ship was actually prepared for a voyage, or whether it sunk on purpose, in which case it would be pointless to purchase supplies,” he paused a moment, swallowed hard, “and they didn’t. Buy them.”

“Oh,” Galahad said, because there was absolutely nothing to be said. But he reached out and took his hand, and Mordred let out a slow, shaky breath, and sunk down next to him on the pillows like all the manic energy that ran him was gone at once and left him small.

They lay there a while, hand in hand, and Galahad thought that as long as they stayed just like this everything would be all right, and finally, now like this, he might sleep, when Mordred suddenly let go. 

He got up, “I should go.”

“You should stay,” Galahad said softly, too soft, because he was already at the door and did not hear, and Galahad wasn’t bold enough to call out, and then he was gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> The prayer Galahad recites in the crypts is St. Justine’s prayer for deliverance from the temptation of lust
> 
> *et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo  
> ‘Lead us not into temptation, and deliver us from evil’


End file.
